


set yourself on fire

by shirozora



Category: Captain America (2011)
Genre: Cap Kink Meme, M/M, Rough Sex, Sadomasochism, Wall Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-09-16
Updated: 2011-09-16
Packaged: 2017-10-23 19:12:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,601
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/253901
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shirozora/pseuds/shirozora
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They had gotten so carried away, so blinded by want and need, that neither of them thought about the consequences, about the visible mark on Howard's skin and Steve's inability to look him in the eye.</p>
            </blockquote>





	set yourself on fire

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the prompt [" **Steve/Howard, rough sex:** Howard gets off on rough sex and pain, being held down, hit, choked and left bruised. Steve wants to be rough with him and then is disgusted with himself afterward, but inevitably ends up going back for more. Guilty, kinky rough sex ensues"](http://capkink.livejournal.com/810.html?thread=1011498#t1011498) at the Cap Kink Meme @ LJ. Doesn't quite follow the prompt to the letter but should be close enough.
> 
> Also, this was supposed to be a mini-fill. What happened to that?

He feels their eyes on his shoulders, his back, his head. They burn like brands, making hot every bruise and impression of teeth even though they can't see them. But what they can see is the purple and red around his throat, and every time he calls someone over or walks over to their side the first thing they look at are the fingers around his neck, the web between thumb and index pressing against his Adam's apple. Feeling the weight of the gazes on the bruise makes it burn as hot as the hand that made it last night, and he tugs at the collar as he works, trying to breathe because it's already hard enough swallowing anything.

"What the hell happened to you?" Colonel Phillips asks while taking a tour of his lab. "Do I have to start babysitting you, too?"

"Nothing you need to know," Howard says as easily as he can with a rough voice. He could've asked Peggy if she could help cover it up - and the hickey right above the pulse point, as dark and obvious as a bull's eye - but he doesn't feel like he has anything to hide. Even if he did want it covered up he can't ask her; she's off on some classified mission and isn't expected back for at least a week.

" _Is that a_ -no, I'm not getting involved in this. Don't tell me anything."

"Yes, sir."

Colonel Phillips makes to move to the next set of prototype equipment, stops, and then turns back to him. "Don't get yourself killed either. You know how much it'll cost to replace you?"

"There's only one of me, sir."

"Damn right! Now what in the fresh hell does this thing do?"

Two days pass before Howard sees him again. He's already crawling out of his skin, anxious because the bruises are fading and he's starting to forget that first night. He pretends to be okay but he knows they're watching him rub at the mark around his neck, the bruise that's fading slower than the others that mark his shoulders and his back.

The only warning he gets before the door bangs open is someone saying, "What if he's experimenting?"

"What's the worst he can do?"

And just like that Sergeant Barnes barges in, followed very closely by Captain Rogers. _Steve_ , Howard's mind readily supplies and he closes his eyes for a moment, remembers the drag of the name in the back of his constricted throat.

Someone whistles and Howard blinks, focuses on Sergeant Barnes. The resident sniper is staring openly at his neck and he's starting to feel the weight and strength of the hand that put it there. Almost immediately he glances at Steve, who's fidgeting and looking everywhere but at him. The rosy flush on his face is creeping down his neck and Howard feels the itch to unbutton the collar and follow it.

"Rough night, huh?" Sergeant Barnes says and Howard blinks, looks at him in confusion. "She must've been something."

Howard snorts as he pretends to pay attention to his work. "Like you'd know."

"I've had my fair share," Sergeant Barnes retorts. "There was this one _fine_ dame, absolutely classy. Took a bit of cajoling getting her to bring me back to her place. But once in her bedroom..." He whistles again, shakes his head and chuckles. "Took a couple weeks for the last bite mark to fade away-"

"Bucky!"

The sergeant elbows Steve in the side. "What? You never had any problems before."

"This is different!"

"Oh come on, Steve," Sergeant Barnes says, throwing his arm around Steve's shoulders. "Just because we're in the middle of a war doesn't mean we can't have fun every once in a while."

If anything Steve turns even redder. Howard sees his right hand twitch - in memory or in shame? - and decides to spare him further embarrassment.

"So, gentlemen," he says, leaning forward on the table. "Any particular reason why you're here?"

"Well I overheard one of the boys talking about a motorcycle you want tested," Sergeant Barnes says. "Thought I might lend a hand."

"Don't think the colonel wants one of his best dying in a fiery crash while going on a joyride on a prototype motorcycle," Howard says dryly.

"He doesn't have to know," Sergeant Barnes replies.

"I'd hate to disappoint you, but the motorcycle isn't ready to be tested for another fortnight," he says with another glance at Steve. "Sorry."

Sergeant Barnes deflates. "Damn, we're shipping out in a week."

Howard starts. "A week?"

It's Steve who speaks up this time. "Recon just sent word that one of the HDYRA bases is acting up. We're still waiting on word about Schmidt's whereabouts but the base needs to be dealt with first."

He nods while his mind starts calculating and reorganizing the timetable in his head, triaging projects to ensure that the Howling Commandos will have the best equipment available when they leave. It distracts him from the numbing thought that in a week Steve won't be in London and months will pass before Howard sees him again.

"Guess it's gonna be another long night then," he says with an exaggerated sigh.

"Right," Sergeant Barnes says. "We'll get out from under your nose, Mr. Stark. Come on, Steve. Need to show you how to hold a gun."

"I can hold a gun just fine," Steve mutters while the sergeant grips him by the elbow and steers him away.

"And what happens if you lose your Colt? Pretend those HYDRA guns don't vaporize people on the spot and you're looking at a regular semi-automatic..."

Howard watches them leave and then glances down at the blueprints on his desk. Something compels him to look up, though, and when he does it's to find Steve staring over his shoulder at him. There's horror on his face and Howard reflexively rubs at the fading finger-sized bruises on the side of his neck.

An hour later he realizes that Steve hadn't looked at him once during the conversation, and that he hadn't known what kind of mark he'd left behind.

~* * *~

  
Howard stares at the bottle on his desk, wondering if he's going to show up. No one batted an eyelash when he said he was staying behind to look over the SSR's latest projects; he's pulled more late nights than is probably healthy but the war demands it and he'll answer with every cell in his body. This time, though, he's not looking at any of the equipment littered all over the place. He's rocking back and forth on his feet, staring blankly at the bottle and the notebooks on his desk while counting down the time in his head.

His skin crawls and blood pounds in his head; he starts pacing, starts raking fingers through damp hair. He can almost _feel_ himself being shoved down on the desk and held there, can recall the dig of teeth on his bared shoulders, the vice grip on his hips and his thighs, the hand on his throat cutting off air. They had gotten so carried away, so blinded by want and need, that neither of them thought about the consequences, about the visible mark on Howard's skin and Steve's inability to look him in the eye.

"Too far?" he mutters, rubbing at the side of his neck again. He's still having trouble swallowing but he'll be damned if it keeps him from liquor and food.

His hand is still on the back of his neck when the doorknob suddenly turns with a click. Howard looks up and his breath hitches as the door creaks open and Steve sidles inside. He's staring at his boots, still unable to look at Howard, and it makes his heart sink.

The door clicks shut and Steve turns the key already lodged in there, locking out the world.

Seconds pass while Howard waits for him to say or do something. His hand falls to his side and fingers curl against the fabric of his trousers, a poor substitute for the tie around Steve's neck. There's a look on Steve's face like he's at war with himself, and so Howard waits despite the growing need to reach out and touch the soldier.

With a deep breath Steve looks up and the guilt is plain on his face and in his voice as he says, "I-I'm sorry. I didn't know-"

"I'm fine," Howard begins.

"I know you told me not to hold back but I didn't-I hurt you! Your neck-"

"It'll go away," he says as he walks around the desk.

"And the next time?"

Howard freezes, blindsided because _Steve had been thinking of a next time_ , and Steve reads him all wrong, bows his head and keeps his fisted hands stiffly at his side. "That was my hand, my...I did that to you. I can't-I can't do it again-"

"Then don't," Howard says. Steve doesn't look up so he closes the distance between them, places fingertips under Steve's chin and tilts his face up. "Put your hand somewhere else."

"You're-you're okay with this?"

Howard smiles as he brushes Steve's plush bottom lip with his thumb. "If you felt so terrible about it why'd you come tonight?"

Heat floods his body as he watches clear blue eyes storm over and feels Steve shudder, take a shaky breath with his mouth.

"I can't-I can't stop thinking about that-"

Whatever he tries to say Howard swallows with a kiss. He doesn't pretend to be nice about it, presses in with a bite and a thrust of his tongue. His hand wraps around the back of Steve's neck as he tastes that heady sweet flavor and tries to chase it into the back of his throat. Hands grip his waist, fingers digging bruisingly into his side as Steve drags him forward. He's hard against Howard's thigh, and desperate if the moans and the abortive rocking against his leg are anything to go by.

"That's it," Howard mumbles as he works his hand between them and tries to loosen his too-constricting tie. "C'mon, know you want this."

"I do," Steve says and his voice shakes with directionless, pent-up _need_. "I do, but-"

"You won't hurt me." He grazes his teeth along the perfect curve of Steve's jaw, tasting salt. "I promise."

Steve pulls away and for a terrifying second Howard thinks he said the wrong thing. Instead Steve squares his shoulders, nods once, and tightens his grip on Howard, turns him around and slams him against the door. The force knocks the wind out of his lungs and before Howard can react Steve is on him, all teeth and tongue while he shoves his knee between Howard's legs and pulls the suspenders off in rough, jerking motions. Howard manages to get his hands in between them, fumbles with the buttons on Steve's army-issue jacket and tries to yank it off. An embarrassingly high-pitched whine escapes his throat when Steve lets him go and steps back but it's only to shed the jacket and toss it aside. Then his hands are all over Howard again, burning through thin layers of fabric into his skin and leaving bruises he'll feel for days.

"Where d'you want to do it?" Steve asks hotly against his ear, fingers sliding under the belt line of his trousers to pull out his shirt.

He shivers as the words curl around them, laced with so much promise. It takes a moment for him to speak, to hoarsely say, "Right here."

Steve hesitates, looks at him questioningly, so Howard yanks on his tie and jerks him forward. Howard presses himself against the door and pulls Steve flush against him; he leans up to mouth at the underside of his jaw, lick off the thin sheen of sweat, and feel the muscles work as Steve swallows hard. He slides his other hand down the hard planes of his body, cups the hard length pressing against his leg, and Steve groans, slams his hand against the door as he rocks against Howard's hand. There's a faint but distinct sound of something starting to give way and they look at the spider web of cracks in the paint and the dent in the door.

"Shit," Steve says, and hearing that from _his_ mouth makes Howard laugh.

"I've got a hundred and one excuses if you break my door," he says, dragging Steve's attention back to him as he starts unbuttoning the army green slacks. "What's yours?"

He loves the way the red hot flush works down Steve's neck, wavers for a split second between getting his pants off and yanking open the collar to follow the hue with his teeth.

Steve makes the decision for him, pushes him back against the door and whispers, "I took you against it."

 _Fuck._ "Who-" Nimble fingers push his out of the way. "Who taught you how to-" Those fingers are on the front of his trousers, unbuttoning and pushing down, and he cuts himself off with a moan as the pressure lets up on his dick.

"You did," Steve says and bites Howard's lip, slides off his tie, and scatters buttons all over the concrete floor as he yanks open the shirt.

Time suddenly slows as Steve stares at the fading bruises and impressions of teeth on Howard's shoulders and torso. Exasperated, and more than a bit anxious to keep going, Howard grabs his hand and presses it against a distinct bruise on his side; hot callused fingers curve along the fading reddish-purple shape, fitting perfectly. Steve looks up at him, then at a bite mark on his left shoulder, and leans over to brush his lips against it.

"Kissing it won't make it go away-"

Steve bites down, hard, and the sharp explosion of pain leaves him cursing and banging his head against the door. His heart skips a beat, catapults itself against his ribs as Steve then slides his tongue over the throbbing mark, soothing it. The pain echoes in a pleasurable shiver down his spine, contrasting sharply with the heated throbbing as Steve kisses the indentation of teeth with care.

"Do it again," Howard says faintly, curving his hand around the back of Steve's head and raking fingers along the curve of his skull.

Steve obliges willingly, picking a stretch of previously unmarked skin. Howard keens, wracked with fire and need, and his back arches while his fingernails dig into the taut muscles of Steve's arm. His cock twitches as teeth sink into skin and a hot tongue caresses the mark, and he thrusts reflexively, looking for friction, looking for _something_.

He's devolving into a trembling mess of need and Steve is just too composed for him; Howard reaches out blindly, grabs at the belt loops, and tugs him forward. It takes him longer than he likes getting Steve's pants open - he keeps stopping with a litany of swears at every bite and kiss along the curve of his collar bone - but finally it's out of the way and he can wrap his hand around the hot thick length. A first, testing stroke and Steve almost breaks skin as he groans and thrusts into his hand.

"Howard," Steve hisses with another sure stroke, slicker with precum.

Howard rubs his thumb over the tip, drawing a helpless whimper out of Steve; his hand presses down on Howard's bruised side, pinning him to the door, and the other braces against the steel next to his head. There's a stuttering sound against his neck, almost like Steve's trying to say something.

"What is it?" Howard slides his fingers along the curve of Steve's cock, teasing out a low, choked moan. "What do you want?"

"I-I want to..."

"Take me against the door?" he says and Steve shudders, nods weakly as he moves against Howard's hand. "What are you waiting for?"

When Steve doesn't answer Howard tilts his face up and looks at him, takes in the swollen pupils and the swell of his bruised lips, reads the barely contained want in his eyes. Slowly Howard toes off his shoes and shoves them aside, pushes his trousers off his hip to let the fabric pool at his feet; all the while he holds Steve's gaze, watches him flush and breathe in sharply at the rippling sound.

"C'mon, Steve," Howard says. He pries Steve's fingers off his side and moves them over his sore hip bone to the curve of his ass. The hand burns on his skin, hotter than the fresh bruising marks on his shoulders and neck. He watches Steve's Adam's apple bob as he leans up to place a careful openmouthed kiss; he drags his teeth along Steve's jaw, eliciting a shudder and a hitching sigh as Steve closes his eyes, then slides back to his mouth and bites down on his bottom lip hard enough to make him flinch. Eyes open with a snap and watch Howard grin and lean forward to whisper into his ear.

"I _want_ you to hurt me."

He punctuates his words with a rough jerk of his hand and gets exactly what he wants. Steve slams him against the door, hands sweeping down to curve under his thighs; he lifts Howard up with frightening ease and presses him into warmed steel, slides teeth and tongue along the line of his neck while his hips jerk forward in search of purchase. Howard reflexively wraps his legs around Steve's waist for leverage, heels digging into the small of his back. He buries his hand in short blond hair, pulls Steve's head off the side of his neck and crushes their mouths together. Teeth clack, tongues pushing and probing, and iron suddenly blooms when Steve bites a little too hard.

Steve's still wearing his shirt - Howard never got around to unbuttoning it - and the fabric rubs against his cock, sparking pleasure bordering on pain. The burn feels so good and Howard thrusts against him again and again, savoring the harsh friction slowly fraying his senses; he wraps his arms around Steve's shoulders for leverage, fingertips dragging against the wrinkled shirt. The noises coming out of his throat are ridiculous and pathetic but he can't stop making them. His legs curl even tighter around Steve's waist as the slick head of Steve's cock slides against his skin; he's already anticipating the inevitable pain, hungers for it, but Steve is moving so slowly and it's driving him mad.

He digs the heel of his foot into Steve's back, hoarsely says, "Christ, just fuck me already."

There's no hesitance this time, no questions on the red raw lips; Steve just looks at him with darkened eyes, adjusts his grip and moves his hips forward until the swollen tip finds the catch. Howard flinches involuntarily while his body throbs with anticipation; he needs that hot hard length in him, needs it to stretch him too thin and leave him too raw and bruised to move the next day. No sooner does the thought cross his mind that Steve pushes in, eyes never blinking, never looking away from him. Even with the precum it's too dry, too much, and Howard bites his bleeding bottom lip, trying to suppress the whimper at the back of his throat. His fingernails dig into fabric and skin as he tries to breathe through the pain.

Steve stops for a millisecond, or maybe Howard's just imagining things, but he desperately says, "Don't stop. Don't stop."

His voice is completely gone and he can only say a word with each shallow exhale, but he repeats himself over and over as Steve slides all the way. The grip on his thighs is incredibly strong, so painful he can feel it all way down to his bones; he ignores the gathering tears and tries to remember to breathe. A haze is settling over Steve's eyes as he finally blinks and sighs; he leans over to mouth at the side of Howard's neck, sucking out a bruise right above the rapid pulse and pretending that he didn't just bury himself in Howard a second ago.

"Tease," Howard chokes out as Steve shifts minutely and his cock brushes against that sweet spot.

"Whose fault is that?" Steve murmurs against the taut line of his neck, and he sounds so confident and in control despite _everything_ that it just makes Howard harder.

The burn is already starting to fade as his body adjusts, and Howard despairs, twists his hips anxiously and says, "Damn you-"

Steve pulls back and the dry friction is _glorious_. Then teeth latch onto the crook of his neck and Steve thrusts into him, a sudden violent snap of his hips that slams them against the door. Howard cries out, presses his forehead against Steve's shoulder, and hisses when the next thrust rubs his dick against Steve's shirt. He shuts his eyes tightly, drags in air through clenched teeth with the rough push and pull; without lubricant every movement is full of pain but Steve never fails to hit that spot inside that makes him cry out at an embarrassingly high pitch and writhe about. He drags his hand up and scrapes his fingernails along the back of Steve's head, clenches at the short hairs, and pulls Steve off his neck to kiss him.

It's sloppy and crude, with blood-tinged spit everywhere and Howard biting Steve's upper lip a little too hard in reply to the next snap of his hips. Steve jostles him for a jarring second as he shifts his stance, teeth scraping hard along the side of Howard's face; the next hard thrust has Howard arching and swearing as pleasure roars through him and heat pools low in his groin. Steve doesn't let him savor it, draws back and thrusts into him again and again. He moves without finesse, unbridled and full of raw need; every touch is bruising and grounding, keeping Howard from drowning in the electrifying high threatening to overtake him.

A slight stutter in the punishing pace, and Steve hooks his arm under Howard, braces himself against the door with the other; he breaks rhythm again, falters and jerks his hips up against Howard. He buries his face in the crook of Howard's neck, whimpers out his name with every reckless thrust.

Still new, Howard thinks with whatever brain cells he has left, and still unused to this. He feels Steve tensing, flinching, keening as he nears the edge; Howard rakes his hand over the back of Steve's head, whispers hotly in his ear, "C'mon, Steve. C'mon."

He rolls his hips the best he can, presses down against Steve, nips at Steve's earlobe as he coaxes him to come. Steve follows willingly; his knee buckles as he slams into Howard once, twice, and then presses all the way in, saying his name in a stifled sob as he shudders and comes. Howard stiffens involuntarily at the uncomfortable wet heat inside him but holds on tight as Steve shivers through the last pulses of pleasure.

Steve bows his head and leans against the door, gasping and flush from the orgasmic high; slowly he slides them down to the floor, knees bent and Howard's legs still curled up against his waist. Howard can ignore the uncomfortable press of cold concrete on his tailbone and the raw, stretched feeling but he's still achingly hard and desperate for release. He moves his arm off Steve's shoulder and slides his fingertips along the curve of his throbbing length, hissing as the pent-up need builds with each stroke. He twitches and drags in air through gritted teeth, bruised back arching and pulling sore muscles.

"Let me."

Steve moves his hand out of the way and slowly, clumsily wraps hot fingers around his cock; Howard shuts his eyes and groans at the contrast of the silky slide of Steve's palm along the curve with the rough, jerky pull of his trembling hand. He doesn't quite care how good or terrible Steve is as long as he can get off; he curls his fingers, presses his knuckles against Steve's thigh and swears as Steve presses his thumb against the swollen tip a little too hard.

He half-expects Steve to say something - "Is that okay? Am I hurting you?" - which would be hilarious considering the bruises and bite marks all over his body, but Steve says none of that; he leans forward, mouthing lazily at the side of his neck as he continues to jerk him off. It doesn't take long; Howard almost whites out as heat and need reaches a crescendo, arching and gasping as he comes all over Steve's hand.

With all the tension flooding out of his body Howard suddenly feels very tired; he slumps against the door, too tired to move or pull himself off Steve. Steve scoots forward an inch or two, mouth still latched to the dark bruise forming over his pulse, as he wipes his hand against his wrinkled shirt. He's a wonderful, solid wall of heat and Howard finds himself wishing they were in his room so he can curl up next to Steve and sleep.

"We should probably move," Steve says quietly, his voice a faint echo of itself. He's rubbing his thumb over a fresh bruise on Howard's side.

"Don't want to," Howard mutters. "Let's just...stay here for a while."

"Howard-"

He tilts his head and presses his lips against the side of Steve's face; a half-second later Steve turns his head and kisses him carefully and deeply. His tongue still manages to push a sore spot and Howard flinches; this time Steve does pull back and look at him with worried eyes.

"After what we just did," Howard cuts in just as he opens his mouth, "I expect you to stop asking me if I'm okay. Hurts, but I'll live, or the good colonel will flay me alive."

Steve drags a fingernail along the inside of Howard's arm and he shivers, squirms.

"He'll see all of this," Steve says, leaning down to slide his tongue over a bite mark, and Howard whimpers despite himself. "Don't really want to share with him."

"You...are just full of surprises, aren't you?"

He laughs when Steve blushes and gives him a sheepish look.

* * *

  
He's sore everywhere, walks with a slight limp and hisses whenever someone pats him on the shoulder or the back, but when given a questioning look he just smiles and keeps talking. He doesn't even try to hide the bruises on his neck and they burn pleasantly whenever he feels someone's eyes on them.

Colonel Phillips just gives him a look when he walks in with his secretary to oversee the latest progress.

"I'm not even gonna ask," he says when Howard opens his mouth.

"Actually, I was wondering if I could borrow Sergeant Barnes for an experiment."

He's never seen the colonel look more relieved, which is probably why the next morning at 0700 hours he's standing next to Steve watching the good sergeant whoop as he rides the partially built motorcycle through the course designed especially for it.

"Looks a little uncomfortable, don't you think?" Steve asks doubtfully, watching Sergeant Barnes carefully maintain his distance from the seat.

"I told him it wasn't ready but he insisted," Howard says. He finds himself leaning against Steve, drawn in by the warmth radiating from the enhanced soldier. It's a comfort on this dreary London morning.

A minute passes, punctuated by Sergeant Barnes swearing when he almost falls off the bike, before Steve says, "Was this an excuse to see me before we ship out tomorrow?"

"My lips are sealed."


End file.
